Day 3: Ducks in a Row
Morning dawned hazy over the fairgrounds, with the usual bustle of barking vendors and squealing rides momentarily drowning out any sense of unease. But then, a ripple of worry spread through the crowd as the mayor made a concerning announcement: she confessed she hadn’t been feeling well since the night before, and hinted - in a steady voice that was only betrayed by the pallor of her face - that poison might be to blame. Gasps and whispers followed, though no one could quite tell whether this was the truth, or political theater carried too far.
Meanwhile, the vote loomed large, with fairgoers clumping together in heated huddles. Fingers pointed, accusations flew, and more than one vendor display had been defaced with cartoon ducks. Some swore that the true threat was obvious - those behind the string of deadly night attacks. Others, however, muttered about something stranger: the idea of a shadowy figure among them with motives neither murderous nor protective. A trickster, a schemer, a wildcard with their own prize booth to run.
All the while, the ducks from the abandoned pond had fully integrated into fair life, waddling between booths and nipping at popcorn kernels spilled on the midway. Their loud quacks punctuated the arguments, as though they, too, wanted a say in who stayed and who would go.
By the time the votes were tallied, the carnival had worked itself into a fever pitch of suspicion, dread, and determination. The mayor still stood at the helm - for now - but a creeping sense of uncertainty settled over the fair like a fog. But the vote tally left little doubt; it was a landslide. One name carried weight after weight, piling higher with each shouted accusation and duck-quacked interruption, until the crowd had spoken as one. The mechanic, grease still smudged on his overalls, stood at the center of it all.
Late in the day, with desperation edging his voice, he protested. He revealed that he’d been blocked from his duties the previous night, that while the coaster rattled and roared overhead, he hadn’t been able to check the harnesses or inspect the tracks, his tools left idle. If only he’d been allowed to work, he swore, things might have been different.
But the crowd was unmoved. Some scoffed at the timing. Others muttered that even if true, it was too little, too late. The votes were already cast, the pile-on unstoppable.
With a final, weary shake of his head, the mechanic was led away. The fairgrounds roared with chatter, some triumphant, others uneasy - but none willing to undo the choice.
Dead is @Therapist4Chnge , who was the Roller Coaster Mechanic, a village Gunsmith, who could investigate a player each night to determine if they had a killing ability
As night fell, the rides groaned and creaked in the evening wind. Without the mechanic’s careful eye, bolts seemed just a little looser, rails a little more brittle. And as the Ferris wheel turned against the fading sky, more than one fairgoer couldn’t help but wonder if their choice had just made the fairgrounds a far more dangerous place.